Victor stood before the familiar door, unable to press the bell. A large travel bag hung heavy in his grip, while the keys to the flat rattled uselessly in his jacket pocket. Three days prior, he’d slammed that same door after yet another row, shouting he’d never return. Pamela had hurled a slipper after him, shrieking he should clear off. Just another spat in thirty years together. This time felt different.
He pressed the bell. Footsteps approached. Pamela’s voice, cold, slithered through the wood.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Vic. Open up.”
Silence. Long and thick and uncomfortable.
“Pam, can you hear me?” Victor repeated.
“I hear you,” she replied frostily. “What do you want?”
“What do I want? I’ve come home.”
“This isn’t your home anymore.”
Victor was stunned. In three decades, even during their most vicious rows, Pamela had never gone this far.
“Pam, stop being daft. Open the door, let’s talk properly.”
“I won’t open it. I won’t talk.”
“What’s gotten into you? What’s all this kerfuffle about?”
“You know very well what.”
He did know. Three days ago, Pamela had found a phone number in his coat pocket – a woman’s handwriting. A simple thing: Beatrice Thackeray from Accounts, passing her number for a meeting. Explaining it to an enraged wife had proved impossible.
“Pam, I explained! Beatrice Thackeray from Accounts. It’s work.”
“Work, is it?” her voice grated through the door. “Phoning each other at ten at night?”
“What ten at night? I didn’t call her at all!”
“Liar. I saw the call on your mobile.”
Victor felt a knot twist inside him. He *had* called Beatrice, but for another reason – her daughter needed a reference for university, where his mate lectured. A favour, nothing more.
“Pam, let me in and I’ll explain calmly.”
“No. Explain from there.”
Victor glanced around. Neighbours could appear on the landing; he didn’t want an audience.
“Alright, listen. I rang Beatrice, that’s true. Not for what you think. Her girl’s applying to study medicine, that’s where Mike works. I promised to have a word.”
“And you think I’ll swallow that yarn?”
“It’s not a yarn, it’s gospel!”
“Gospel? Then why keep it secret? Why not mention it?”
Victor hesitated. He hadn’t told his wife about the favour. No ill intent, just didn’t think it warranted mentioning.
“I wasn’t hiding it. Just didn’t think it mattered.”
“Oh, didn’t matter? And what else didn’t matter? Tell me, why were you cosying up with that bit in the café?”
Victor’s heart lurched. How did she know?
“How did you…”
“Margaret Wren saw you. Says you were like lovebirds, holding hands.”
“We weren’t holding hands!” Victor protested. “Half an hour, tops! She bought me a coffee to say thanks for helping her daughter!”
“Course she did. All so generous these days.”
The venom in Pamela’s voice told him she wouldn’t relent. “Pam, love, think it through. Why would I want other women? I’ve got you, got our family.”
“*Had* a family. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore? What are you on about?”
“Just that. Had enough of living with a philanderer.”
“What philanderer? I’ve done nothing!”
“Nothing? What were you doing then? Carrying on?”
Victor leaned his forehead against the door. A dead end. “Pam, meet me tomorrow when you’re calmer. Talk like adults.”
“Won’t calm down. Won’t meet.”
“Pam…”
“Go to that Beatrice Thackeray. Maybe she’ll let you in.”
“Rubbish! What Beatrice Thackeray? I’m sixty, a granddad! What do I want with carrying on?”
“Then why haunt cafés with strange women?”
“I explained! Once, out of politeness.”
“Once… Or maybe more?”
Victor saw the trap. Anything he said, Pamela would twist. “Alright,” he sighed wearily. “I’m off. But we’ll talk later.”
“No, we won’t.”
Victor took his bag down to the car where his son Geoffrey waited.
“Well, Dad? She let you in?” Geoffrey asked, seeing his father’s face.
“Nope.”
“Seriously?” Geoffrey frowned. “Has Mum gone barking?”
“Dunno, son. Can’t fathom it.”
They got in. Geoffrey started the engine but didn’t drive. “Dad, what really kicked off? Mum was saying things on the phone…”
“What things?”
“Well… That you’ve got a fancy woman. That you’re cheating.”
Victor exhaled heavily. “Geoffrey, I swear on anything – there’s no one. Never has been. Your mother’s making it up.”
“Then where’d this… Beatrice come from?”
“Beatrice Thackeray’s a colleague. Perfectly ordinary. I helped with her daughter, she bought coffee. That’s it.”
Geoffrey studied him. “Dad, you telling the truth?”
“Truth, son.”
“Then I don’t get why Mum flipped. Usually blows over quick.”
“I don’t either.”
As Geoffrey drove him to his place for the night, he asked, “Listen, Dad, maybe it’s not about Beatrice at all?”
“What then?”
“Dunno. Maybe something else happened? Something bothering Mum?”
Victor considered this. Lately, Pamela *had* been nervy, snappy. He’d blamed menopause – fifty-eight, after all.
“Possibly. But why lock me out? We could talk, sort it.”
“Mum’s always been stubborn. Remember how she sulked when you rowed when we were kids?”
Victor remembered. Pamela could ignore him for weeks over nothing. But always made the first move later. At his son’s, Victor slept fitfully. Come morning, he resolved to try again.
“Geoffrey, drive me home.”
“Dad, maybe give Mum space to simmer down?”
“No, son. Can’t just quit. Thirty years together, can’t tear it apart over nonsense.”
Geoffrey reluctantly agreed. He offered to come up, but Victor insisted on facing it alone. He pressed the bell for the fourth-floor flat.
“Pam, it’s me.”
“Thought it was the plumber,” came the icy reply.
“Pam, let’s talk. Settle this.”
“Nothing to settle with you.”
“Nothing? We’re husband and wife!”
“*Were* husband and wife. Not now.” Irritation bubbled within Victor. “Pamela, stop this daftness! Open the door!”
“Won’t.”
“Why?”
“Don’t want to see your face.”
“For what? What have I done?”
“You know.”
They circled the drain again. Victor changed tack. “Alright. Suppose I did wrong. Forgive me. Won’t
Bernard stood in the relentless London drizzle, the brass keys cold and useless in his pocket, the familiar glow of the sitting-room window feeling as distant and unyielding as the White Cliffs, his own reflection dissolving into the rivulets running down the painted-black door as he finally turned, shoulders slumped, and walked away into the grey, leaving thirty years dissolving like sugar in a puddle beside the wet pavement, the house shrinking behind him until it was just another brick in the endless, indifferent terrace.
